


Parting the Veil

by gay_android



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/F, Original Character(s), Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-02-07
Updated: 2014-02-13
Packaged: 2018-01-11 12:23:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,121
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1173031
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gay_android/pseuds/gay_android
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Before Voldemort's downfall, Bellatrix Lestrange strikes a deal with an ex-auror. Slightly AU-ish. Eventual Bellatrix/Hermione.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Angelfish Lane was the sort of place you sent your grandmother to die.  
Every house was squat and painted a cheery shade of yellow. Every front yard was a tad bit overgrown, as none of the elders could figure out how to work the lawn mower. Every window frame was overflowing with flowers choked by excessive watering. The kitchens were filled with mismatched pots and pans. The houses were inhabited by every grandparent known to man. The yeller. The racist. The cookie-baker. The professional. The crab.  
Well, every house except for one.  
When the Grangers moved in, they had not expected to end up living in the equivalent of a retirement home. Their real estate agent had not explained that detail to them; they had not thought to ask.  
Not that they minded. Oh, no. They were not really the minding type. It had been a bit of an odd surprise, but they took it all in stride. They tended to do that.  
As for the seniors, well, for the most part they adored the little family at the end of the block. Particularly their clever, helpful little girl. That Hermione. Always ready to lend a hand, never complaining. When they needed a light bulb replaced or an oven fixed, it was she they called. Though the tasks never took more than a minute or two, often the elders would invite her to tea, to coffee, to sample that pie they were planning on sending to their bothersome son-in-law. It was a pity the Granger girl spent the better part of the year off at that school year in the countryside.  
That’s what’s on Mr. Munoz’s mind as he watches the Granger’s house from his porch. Or what used to be the Granger’s house. The moving van came, without warning, at the end of the summer. Within a matter of weeks the Grangers were packed up and moved, house sitting neat and empty at the corner of the block. Sad, really. He’ll miss the family. They’ve always been so kind, and their daughter so polite.  
In the Granger’s backyard, a raccoon slips out from under the fence, tiny nose twitching. Mr. Munoz frowns. Not another infestation. He’d thought they’d seen the last of those creatures.  
But apparently not. With a sigh, he gets up from his folding chair, stepping back inside the cool of his house, shutting the screen door with a click behind him.  
The raccoon freezes, watching the house. Its tiny nose twitches, and it would have been almost endearing had it not been smeared with a noxious, slimy green substance.  
The sun has begun to sink below the horizon. The crickets have come out, and their chirps echo up and down the street, providing a nice white noise to the distant rumble of cars from the nearby highway.  
All is still.  
All is, for the most part, quiet.  
Until a loud popping sound punctuates the calm.  
The dark figure tumbles, seemingly from mid-air. It lands on all fours, like a cat, though it is clearly human. For a half-second, it lays there on the asphalt of the street, dark and strangely ominous, until, muttering silent curses, it picks itself up. With a quick straightening of robes, the slender woman--for it is a woman--starts off down the street. It’s a good thing most of the neighbors have already tucked in; she’d surely set off all sorts of internal alarms. And no wonder. She’s a strange sight. She wears a fitted dark dress and a cloak with silver fastenings. Save for a few curly tendrils of dark hair and the tip of a slightly crooked pale nose, her face and hair are obscured by the cloak’s large hood. She clutches a long stick of wood, curved like a bird’s talon, in her right hand. The heels of her boots click on the pavement as she walks down the street, determination in her step.  
In a few long strides, she reaches the end of the street, where two great elms stand like sentinels, one short and fat, one tall with a scar across its middle where two lovers carved their initials long ago. This is where she pauses, throwing a careful look over one shoulder before raising the stick in her right hand. “Summersby?”  
Her voice is sibilant, light, but with an underlying tone of urgency. She leans forward, intent dark gaze cutting through the shadows.  
“I know you’re there.” The assurance of her tone wavers just slightly. “You can’t hide.”  
Something stirs in the inky darkness. “Summersby?”  
A pause, as though the thing--whatever it is--is thinking. Then--  
“Expelliarmus!”  
With a muted shriek, the woman is thrown against the trunk of the tree. Her talon-like stick leaps from her fingers into a waiting hand. The thing in the shadows examines the weapon, then pockets it. Slowly, pieces of the man emerge to make a bigger picture--a slight jaw, aquiline nose, thick, dark mess of curls, and scars, oh so many scars--as he steps from the shadows. “I would’ve thought you’d be more vigilant, Lestrange.”  
“I--” Shaken, she picks herself off the ground with as much dignity as she can muster. “I wasn’t expecting you to hex me. I thought we agreed this relationship would be a nonviolent one?”  
He shrugs, twirling her wand in his fingers. “I wouldn’t call expelliarmus a violent spell.”  
She frowns. The fall has knocked off her hood, and under the folds of fabric, she is lovely. A sharper kind of beautiful, all hard, dark lines and bony corners--but beautiful all the same. “I didn’t think we were here to bicker about curses, Summersby.”  
His lips twitch in something like amusement. “You’re right. A thousand apologies.” He hesitates the barest moment--teasing me, he’s teasing me, she thinks--before handing her the wand. She grasps it tight, like a mother reunited with her child. “Have you thought about our deal?”  
She nods.  
“And your answer is…?” he prompts.  
She rubs her chapped lips together and fingers the wand. More out of instinct than anything, Summersby grips his own even tighter.  
“...Yes.”  
She lets the word slither off her lips and sit between them, cracking a chasm deeper than the Grand Canyon. Summersby lifts one eyebrow but says nothing.  
“You realize you can’t tell anyone of this.” Her voice, still light, carries an underlying threat that would make most wizards wet their trousers.  
Summersby only shrugs. “So long as you do the same.”  
She nods, a quick, jerking movement. “Of course.”  
“Tomorrow, then. Nockturn Alley, ten o’ clock sharp.” It is not a question.  
Another nod from Lestrange. With a crack, Summersby disappears into thin air, leaving the raven-haired woman behind.


	2. Chapter 2

“This,” says Harry, “is not a good idea.”  
“I’ve told you, I can handle myself.” She walks a little faster, and he picks up the pace. “All he wants to do is talk.”   
The young man snorts. “Sure he does. Hermione, I know Summersby. I’ve worked with him. It’s never just talking. He’ll want money, he’ll want you to help him…”   
“I’ll be fine. You seem to forget saying no is one of my talents.” The land starts to tilt--here’s the hill--and the pair slows down. “Besides, it’s been a year since you saw him. Maybe he’s changed.”  
She knows how stupid it sounds the second it slips out of her mouth. They know better than anyone how long change takes. To his credit, Harry only shakes his head.  
They reach the top of the slope, both short of breath. Harry leans on a nearby tree; Hermione fumbles with the fastenings on her cloak.   
“Got your wand?”   
She nods.  
“Spare change?”  
Another nod. “Muggle and wizarding.”  
“Stay safe, Hermione.”  
“Of course.” She manages a nervous smile and, with a quick twist and a crack, apparates away.  
She’s never liked this method of travel; she’ll never get used to it. She tumbles out of thin air, breathless and ready to hurl. Her stomach’s a mess. She takes a few gulping breaths of blessedly cold air, steadying herself against the nearest wall. It takes a minute for her eyes to adjust after such a wild ride; but soon she can see the shops, leaning this way and that, their grimy windows stacked with unsold merchandise. The wanted posters, peeling at the corners, still snarling and leering though most of their occupants are long dead. Knockturn Alley.   
She straightens her cloak--she’s been wearing muggle clothes for so long, it’s something of an adjustment--and sets off down the street, trainers scuffing the pavement. Most of the shops she passes appear empty; the few that are inhabited only have a customer or two. She takes a turn onto another street, reciting the number under her breath; “Nineteen, nineteen, nineteen…”  
And there it is, address painted in crooked yellow lettering right above the awning, right above the sign that reads “Craw’s Ice Cream Bar and Sweet Shoppe.” The windows are grimy, and mostly boarded up; the black chalkboard up front is cracked, remaining messages smudged. She checks the name in the letter. This is the place. It may be a first. Though she’s seen quite a bit, she’s never come across an evil candy store.  
She pushes open the door, and the tiny brass bell on the doorframe tinkles. At first glance the room appears empty; but then someone coughs, and suddenly she notices the tall, dark man standing just to the left in the shadows. She can’t be blamed for missing him; he is the sort who would blend in around here. His hair is rumpled, his chocolate eyes hooded from lack of sleep. If it weren’t for the telltale squared shoulders of a Gryffindor, she’d have him marked as one of the serpents.   
“Granger.” His voice is soft, almost gentle, like he’s speaking in the midst of sleeping children. “Glad you could come. I had begun to worry.”   
“No need.” She tucks her wand back into her pocket--she’d taken it out--before extending a hand. “Just got a bit caught up. Needed to apparate away from the muggles and all.”  
He nods, catching her own hand, still small and pink, in his own callused one. His handshake is firm and quick, and the young woman can’t help but relax a bit. She likes authority, a leader. And there’s no one more authoritative than Ethnan Summersby. “It’s fine.” He flicks his hair out of his eyes. In another time and place, that little gesture would make a girl swoon. “We’ve got bigger things to worry about. I’m assuming you got my letter?”  
“Yeah--I mean, yes, yes I did.” As if to prove it, she pulls the parchment from the folds of her robe. “Although--and you’ve got to understand I’m very honored, very honored indeed…” She chews at her lip, eyes darting to the side for the briefest of moments.  
“But…?” he prompts.  
She shakes her head. “I don’t know why you asked me. Harry and Ron are the aurors. I work at Department for the Care of Magical Creatures. I won’t be any help when it comes to catching old Death Eaters.”  
Summersby frowns. “Are you quite sure about that?” He rests one shoulder against the brick wall, looking at Hermione with something almost like surprise. “I think I know quite a few people who would disagree.”  
She flushes a light pink. “That’s not...I mean, I’ve…”  
“That’s not what?” He leans in. “You’re a war hero, Hermione. There’s no one more qualified than you to take this on. Not Weasley. Not Potter. No one else can help me here. Not the way you can.”  
Something’s not right. In the back of her head, she can hear Harry’s voice again--”It’s never just talking...he’ll want money, he’ll want you to help him…”  
But she’s the brightest witch of her age, for God’s sake, and she can take care of herself.  
“What kind of help will you need?”  
“Ah. Yes.” He reaches up and pushes his fingers through his hair, making it stand up in deep brown plumes. This is her first glimpse at the ragged white scar that marrs his otherwise perfect forehead. “The thing is...you’ve got to promise me. You’ve got to promise me you won’t tell anyone.”  
That, the reasonable part of Hermione’s brain says, should be sending up all sorts of red flags.  
“Why?”   
He sighs, blowing air out through his cheeks. “I was young when I made this deal...I don’t regret it, but...there are certain mistakes one makes...I wouldn’t want those mistakes to define my career...surely you understand.”  
“I don’t want mistakes to define my career, either.” The proper Hermione cringes. The skeptical one cheers her on.  
Either way, Summersby doesn’t seem offended by it. He just nods, thoughtful. “No, no...of course not. I understand.” He tips his head back, contemplating the rafters, lost in his mind for a brief moment. When he speaks again, his voice has lost the passion of earlier. It is softer, gentler now. The Sleeping Nursery Summersby is back. “I would never ruin the career of another young one. I’ve lost too much myself. Hermione, I swear I’ll do everything I can to keep your life intact. You’ll make as few sacrifices as possible. This will be nothing compared to the war.”  
The younger woman looks into his eyes--dark, chocolate, and full to the brim with what can only be described as sincerity. “Fine. Tell me what you need help with.”  
Another nod. She’s beginning to wonder if that’s a tell of his, and if so, what does it mean? “Several years ago...two, if you want to get exact about it...two years ago, I was approached with a rather...unusual offer.”  
Hermione’s eyebrows shoot up, and her stomach tightens some. Unusual is not a word she’s fond of. “What kind of unusual?”  
“You can probably guess. It was a Death Eater. One of You Know Who’s closest. They wanted...they wanted a way out. He--the Dark Lord--was brutal, even to his own followers.” He takes a deep breath. “They told me if I could help them--if I could find them a safe place, away from society--they’d help me find others. One in particular--one of You Know Who’s worse--I’d been looking for him for a long, long time. She promised me she’d help me find him.”  
“She?” There go the internal alarms again. “Who was it? Would I know her?”  
He meets her gaze, and for the first time she spots an intensity there that unnerves her. “Her name’s Bellatrix. Bellatrix Lestrange.”  
Though it seems impossible, Hermione’s mind goes blank. Really, honestly blank. It has been so, so long since she’s heard that name. It takes surprisingly long for her to link it to that mess of dark curls and the hollowed face and that crooked wand.   
But then she does, and soon her stomach is sinking. He’s mad. Really, honestly bonkers. “Summersby,” she says, as gently as she can, “Bellatrix Lestrange is dead. Mrs. Weasley killed her. I was there. I saw it.”  
He shakes his head. “That was another Death Eater. Lower in the ranks than she. We...well...we talked with him, and she took his polyjuice potion and he took hers, and they switched places.”  
“But that can’t be true--I mean, why would she abandon Voldemort? He was everything to her.” Hermione barely even met Bellatrix, but she knows this. She saw the crazed expression in her eyes, something like love, even, and she clings to that image with all her might. Because the memories are starting to creep back, and with them the terror, the blood, the pressure of the older woman’s body on hers...and the pain…so much pain… “She can’t be alive,” Hermione repeats, and it’s less of an argument than a reassurance. Monsters don’t survive. They’ve played their parts. Harry’s defeated Voldemort. There are no more wars left to fight.   
He shakes his head again. “She is. I saw her, just the other day. I’m keeping her in a flat, in London…charmed, I promise,” he adds, like he can sense the younger girl’s growing unease. “Charmed shut. She wouldn’t be able to escape even if she wanted to. Which she doesn’t.”  
Hermione’s body may be here, but in reality she is somewhere far, far away. In the distance, she hears her own voice answer him. “How could I help?”  
“I need someone to help me--well, the first thing would be to take her somewhere else--you see, the flat’s too close to the muggle world, and she’s going stir crazy in there. Nearly got seen twice--all under control, of course, just want to be as careful as possible. And in the long term, we need help with this other Death Eater.”  
“What’d you say his name was?”  
“I didn’t.” He is visibly relieved that Hermione is taking this so well. Inwardly, she lets out a dark chuckle. He doesn’t know the half of it. Doesn’t know how terrified she is. “Brommer. Klauss Brommer.”  
German. It’s incredible she’s able to detect something so mundane as a name’s ethnicity when her whole world is being turned upside down.   
“So is that a yes?” His voice brings her back to Earth, back to the tiny little haunted ice cream shop, and she regards him with weary eyes. Outside, she is still as a rock; inside, every nerve is exploding in full flight-or-fight mode. One of the worst Death Eaters is out and about, and she’s expected to just take it in stride?  
“I...I can’t…” She hates the tremor that has crept into her voice.  
“Of course.” He acts like he can understand her babbling. “It’s alright. You sleep on it. Just owl me with your answer by next week. That OK?”  
He is so gentle, so soft, so kind with her…  
Her nails bite into the palms of her hands--the only outward sign of all the crazy inside. She wants to scream no, to run out of there as fast as she can--  
Yet some tiny, calm part of her speaks back. You haven’t even had a chance to think about it. You’ve got to look at this rationally.  
She takes a deep breath. “I’ll...I’ll think about it.”


	3. Chapter 3

Got her in a flat in London…  
Hermione stares at the Daily Prophet without reading a word. Out of the corner of her eye, she can see Harry and Ron whizzing by on their broomsticks, tossing the apple they’re using as a Quaffle back and forth. Ginny’s laugh--full-throated and sweet--sounds from out of view. Though she hates Quidditch, Hermione can’t help but wish to join them.  
Charmed, I promise…  
Summersby’s a more than decent wizard, she knows--but when it comes to a witch like Bellatrix, you have to wonder…  
She’s going stir crazy in there…  
A stir crazy Bellatrix Lestrange sounds like the stuff of Hermione’s nightmares.  
How could I help?  
Is it just her, or does her own voice sound stupider in her imagination?  
She sets down her quill--she meant to take notes--and rubs at her eyes vigorously, like it can sort out her thoughts. She knows what she should do; she always does. She should send him an owl with a firm but kind no, and then tell Harry, or Ginny, or an adult--  
(God, what is she thinking? She is an adult, for Merlin’s sake.)  
She still hasn’t told them--not the whole story. She  
She tips back in her chair, lifting her gaze to wear the wall meets the ceiling. There’s a crack in there that used to scare her half to death when she stayed here as a teen. Anything could crawl out of there. Anything at all.  
Now she’s more than used to it.   
The thing that really gets Hermione about this--the thing that really bugs her--is that her life has just begun to calm down. School’s done, the war’s over, she’s got a nice, calm job at the Ministry. She’s got Harry, and Ron, and Ginny, and there’s no fighting or deaths to complicate things or get between them. She’s got the Burrow to come to during the summers, with its Quidditch games and late walks in the woods. For the first time in what feels like forever, everything’s under control.  
And then Summersby just had to come in and ruin everything.   
Hermione knows this. She knows this, and she’s properly angry about it--she’s feeling all the right feelings…  
But.  
But.  
Ethnan Summersby was just so...so kind. So gentle with her, so understanding. And commanding. And assuring…  
It’s kind of hard not to trust someone like that.  
Outside, Ginny’s busy pummeling Ron with the shaft of her broomstick, while Fleur squeals in the background.   
Hermione glances at the clock. Twelve. Maybe she does deserve a break…  
\------------------  
“‘Mione!” He tilts the shaft of his broom towards the ground, landing with a soft thump.  
“Hey, Ron.” She smiles a little and tugs her scarf snug around her throat. “Just wanted to see how you were doing.”  
“You’ve got good timing.” Harry lands next to his friend, trainers scuffing the half-frozen ground; it’s only August, but already the air has a definite nip to it. “We were just about to head in for lunch.”  
“Ah.” Hermione hides a smile as Ginny and Fleur approach, bloodied and the latter looking quite sour. “Good game?”  
“Fantastic,” Ginny says with an ear-to-ear grin. “Absolutely brilliant--wonderful practice.”  
“I’m glad.” And she means it. Ginny’s been worried about her Quidditch skills ever since summer started--getting rusty and all that. Which is utter rubbish, of course, but she wouldn’t listen to a word of reassurance. Maybe this will set her at ease.  
As they head in, broomsticks propped up against the Weasley’s garden shed, Fleur falls into step next to Hermione. “Eet was horrible,” she hisses, like she was asked for her opinion. “Utter chaos--je jure, try and make me do that again and I’ll--”  
Mrs. Weasley steps out of the Burrow’s back door at that exact moment, ending Fleur’s rant and saving Hermione from what was shaping up to be a very interesting lesson in French.   
“I’ve got lunch on the stove, you can help yourselves--oh, Hermione!” The redheaded woman looks surprised but pleased to see the younger girl, and Hermione’s stomach sinks as she smiles back. “Haven’t seen you all morning--you’ve been working, I expect?”  
“Yeah--just a bit...bogged down at the office.” Her stomach twists into a million unpleasant knots. Out of all the people to lie to…  
Ron’s mother frowns. “You’ve been working quite hard recently, haven’t you?”  
She knows the tone in Mrs. Weasley’s voice, and she waves it away with a still hand.“Oh, don’t worry about me. I’m doing just fine--just a bit busy, is all.”  
The older woman still looks doubtful, but Ron’s calling from the kitchen, and she contents herself with a stern squeeze of Hermione’s hand before stepping back into the house.   
The brunette follows, ducking under the doorframe--she’s grown since last summer. Inside the kitchen, the smell of fish and freshly baked bread wafts through the air. Harry and Ron lean against the tabletop; Ginny perches on the counter. Fleur’s washing up at the sink, and to her left Mrs. Weasley’s returned to the cutting board, slicing the sandwiches into triangles.   
Hermione pulls out a chair and sinks into it. Harry takes a seat to her left, and gives Mrs. Weasley a quick smile as she hands him his lunch before leaning over. “What’d Summersby want?” he mutters out of the corner of his mouth--they haven’t yet told any of the Weasleys about the man’s idea.   
Hermione shrugs, nibbling at the corner of her wheat-and-fish sandwich. “Just what he said in the letter. Old Death Eater--some German man.” She doesn’t have the heart to tell him about Bellatrix. Not yet. She needs to work this out in her own mind first.  
Harry frowns. “Just what he said in the letter?”  
“That’s it.” She lowers her voice as Ron takes a seat across from the two of them. “Look, I know you don’t believe it, but that’s what happened.”  
“And what’d you say?”  
She shrugs. “I...I just told him I was really busy with work and all, and I didn’t have time to do it.”   
“Don’t have time to do what?” Ron takes a big bite of his sandwich, chewing with his mouth full. “Are ‘oo ‘inally standing up ‘o your ‘upervisor, ‘Mione?”  
“Oh, like you never work overtime.” Hermione polishes off the last bite of her lunch, then stands up, pushing her chair back with a scratch of the legs. “Remember all those times you and Harry stayed up late chasing down dark wizards? At least what I do isn’t dangerous.”  
Ron swallows his bite and frowns at her. “Least we didn’t go back to school, for Merlin’s sake.”  
Hermione says nothing, just carries her plate to the sink and sets it there. Though she reaches for a sponge, Mrs. Weasley stops her. “Oh, dear--no, no, you just sit right back down. I’ll do this by magic, thanks.”  
Hermione tries to protest, but the older woman’s already got the sponge hard at work with a wave of her wand.   
“Hey, Hermione--” Ginny waves her over with one tanned hand. “Ron wants a rematch in gobstones. Says I cheated last time--which is total bunk, mind you--” she sends him a nasty glare-- “Would you mind watching us, to make sure I don’t ‘cheat’ this time?”  
Her voice is dripping with sarcasm, and Hermione can’t help but smile as Ron rolls his eyes. “She did, I swear--”  
“Oh, you’re just embarrassed I beat you.”  
“I’d love to referee--really--but I’m busy.” She takes a step towards the stairs. “Besides, I don’t know the first thing about gobstones.”  
“Then we’ll teach you.” Ginny makes big, begging brown eyes. “C’mon...Please…”  
Foot already resting on the bottom step, Hermione hesitates.  
Summersby can wait.

\---------

Hermione has never really been one for procrastinating, but it turns out she’s quite good at it. A natural, really. Between what may just be the longest gobstones game in the history of long gobstones games, conversations with Ginny, and Ron’s incredibly descriptive---and probably exaggerated--story of the time he and Harry killed a rogue werewolf in Scotland, she doesn’t get back to work until around seven o’ clock at night.  
Muttering excuses about reading and paperwork, she slips away from dinner and up the stairs early. She makes sure to lock the door when she steps into her room--she doesn’t want to worry Harry or any of the Weasleys--before sliding into the chair. She stares at the blank parchment for a few moments, still mulling over what to write, before picking up her quill and dunking it in ink.   
Ethnan Summersby,  
I’m incredibly honored that you think I’m fit for this job, but I’m afraid I won’t be able to help you. I’m quite busy with work as is, and I’m not nearly skilled enough to control a witch like Lestrange.  
I must admit I’m more than a little bit concerned about the nature of this project. Though I have to turn you down, don’t hesitate to contact anyone else at the Ministry if you feel you need more help.  
I do wish you luck, and hope that we can remain friends.  
Sincerely,  
Hermione J. Granger  
She rolls it up and hands it off to the tiny pygmy owl she bought after getting her first job. Already her chest feels lighter. Yes, this is a problem, but it won’t be nearly as hard to deal with as she first thought. In the morning she’ll write to the Ministry, and tell Harry and Ron, and together they can figure this out. Lestrange won’t be bothering anyone for long, and neither will Summersby.   
Yes, she’ll do that in the morning. But now is the time for sleep. For rest. God knows she’s earned it.  
She opens the window a crack, lets the owl glide out into the night, and then slips into bed. She’ll deal with it tomorrow, yes. There’s always tomorrow...


	4. Chapter 4

A/N: Happy Femmeslash February, everyone! *blows kisses* 

Dear Ms. Granger,  
I’m very sorry that you won’t be able to help me. I can’t say I’m surprised; it is, after all, a grueling job, and I wouldn’t dream of distracting you from your work.  
I do have one more favor to ask you: I have recently acquired a sample of Klauss Brommer’s handwriting. Several of my coworkers have raved about your abilities when it comes to Muggle forensics; I would appreciate some help in that regard.  
If you wish to help, please meet me at Chase Odds and Ends at half past twelve on 23 August.  
Best regards,  
Ethnan Summersby.

“He is unbelievable.”  
Hermione shakes her head. “I know.”  
“So what’d you tell him?”  
She pushes her hair out of her eyes. “Nothing. Not yet. I wanted to see what you thought first.”  
He rolls his eyes. “And you couldn’t guess? I mean, if it was just any old Death Eater, I’d understand, but Bellatrix bloody Lestrange—“  
“Keep it down,” she hisses, cutting him off. “Look, I--I don’t want to worry them—“  
“Was that why you waited so long to tell me?” They pass a small throng of grimy salesmen, and he lowers his voice. “Hermione, they’re adults. They can handle this.”  
She shakes her head. “As well as you did?”  
“Oh, come on now. I wasn’t that bad.” They round another corner; and now Hermione can see the sign, swaying and creaking in the wind. “I was in shock, that’s all.”  
“I’m not blaming you.” They come to a stop in front of the store, Hermione’s hand hovering above the doorknob. “I don’t enjoy shocking people, Harry. And I’d like to keep the Weasleys as calm as possible.”  
Harry snorts. “They can handle a little chaos. They went through seven years of it.” With that, he leans into the door, pushing his way in. After a moment of hesitation, Hermione follows.  
This store, unlike their first meeting place, is fairly crowded. A handful of wrinkled, wizened witches crouch over a yellowed scrap of parchment in the darker shadows of the room. In a table by the window, a huge, hulking monstrosity of a man smokes a pipe, looking like something out of a Muggle detective novel. Behind the counter, a pimply young man polishes the wares ‘till they shine.  
As the pair of them cross the room, Hermione can’t help but notice the subtle stirring amongst the patrons. One of the witches leans over to whisper in her friend’s ear; the hulking wizard stares dumbly at the kids through a thick haze of smoke. When Harry approaches the counter, the young clerk gawks at the chosen one, mouth agape, like he’s never seen anyone like it.  
“We’re here for Ethnan Summersby. Has he been through here?”  
Though she’s used to it by now, Hermione still feels a twinge of admiration in her stomach at the commanding tone in her friend’s voice. No one would guess he’s only nineteen.  
“I—Yes, he’s just behind—just back—I mean, I’ll get him for you.” The clerk, cheeks flushed a light pink, ducks into what Hermione can only assume is the storeroom.   
“I’m sure it’s nothing,” she says, speaking to herself as much as Harry. “Maybe he’s..shy?”  
The young man snorts. “Ethan Summersby is not the shy sort.”  
She’s just opening her mouth to respond--with what, she doesn’t know--but right at that moment, the clerk steps through the swinging door, face even pinker than before. “He’s—I’m very sorry, Sir—and, um, Ms.—but he’s—he’d like to see you in there, if you don’t mind.”  
Hermione glances at Harry. Though his face is impressively blank—no stranger would be able to guess what he’s thinking—she notices a touch of worry in his eyes. “I—yes, of course that won’t be a problem,” she says, trying to signal to Harry without speaking that everything will be alright, that Summersby won’t hurt them.  
She can’t tell if he gets her message, but he does follow her behind the counter and into the storeroom.   
The first thing that registers with the place is how cramped it is. Crates are stacked haphazardly across the room, turning the space into some sort of bizarre maze. Thick books sit, three deep, atop every flat surface available. An old Nimbus-one-something rests on the far wall, its twigs bent and shaft cracked; a self-smoking pipe, sitting on a low table, puffs out tiny gray cloud after tiny gray cloud.  
“Ms. Granger.”  
Hermione gives a little squeak and spins around on her heel. Standing behind the two of them is Summersby, looking mildly surprised. True to his word, he’s got a crisp sheaf of parchment peaking out of his robes. “I wasn’t expecting you to come.”  
“I--” She stands up a little straighter as he approaches. It’s no good. He’s still got her by a few inches.   
“I didn’t know you were planning on bringing friends.” His voice, before so warm and gentle, now has a sharper edge to it.  
“Do you remember your promise?” Yes, it’s sharp, and with something else--hurt? Has she hurt him?  
“What promise?” Harry looks from his friend to Summersby as though following a tennis match, and for the first time something like worry lights in his eyes. “What is he talking about?”  
Summersby frowns. “Ms. Granger, either we talk alone or we don’t talk at all.”  
Hermione swallows, a bit louder than she intended. “He wanted to come.”  
“What promise?” Harry repeats, eyes still on his friend.   
“Mr. Summersby and I promised to...keep this between us.” She squares her shoulders, gaze focused just below the ceiling. She knows if she looks around, both of the gazes in the room--light, dancing green and smoldering chocolate--will be locked on her.  
“That was foolish, Hermione.” His voice is low, and it makes her wince. She’s not sure if it’s the tone or the insult--she’s not foolish, and he knows it. She never is.  
“What’s foolish about it?” The older man’s voice has regained its mild manner, and when Hermione glances down briefly, he’s moved a step closer. “Surely you don’t find trust foolish, Mr. Potter?”  
Harry’s frown deepens. “Of course not. It’s just that I find it difficult to trust someone who strikes deals with the woman who killed my godfather.”  
Hermione has never before believed a room could hold its breath, no matter how many times she read it in novel after novel. At least not until now. Because, as the two young men stare at each other with an impressive intensity, she swears every spare inch of air has been sucked from the space. A silence thicker than oil descends, and for a brief moment Hermione is convinced a fight will break out.  
Then she opens her mouth, and the silence breaks. “Let’s stay civil, Harry.”  
“I am being civil,” Harry insists, at the same time Summersby says, “Sound advice.”  
The younger man shoots him a glare, but before he can fire back, Hermione interrupts again. “We’re not here to bicker. We’re here to--to discuss things.”  
“I will not discuss things with--” Summersby pauses, as though considering his options-- “him here. With anyone else but you.”  
“Yes, you will.” Who does this strong, clear voice belong to, and what is she doing inside Hermione’s mouth? “You will discuss it here or not at all.”   
Summersby’s eyes narrow, but he reaches into his robes and pulls out the note all the same. Even from her place, the young witch can make out the tidy scrawl on the yellowed parchment. “What’s he doing here, anyways?”  
Hermione takes a deep breath. “Just...he’s just curious, that’s all. He’d like to ask you a few questions.”  
“What kind of questions?” Though he still stands impressively still, the young witch can’t help but note a small tremor in his left hand as he reaches up to flick his dark bangs aside. “You must understand I can’t answer any questions without knowing the context.”  
“The Ministry’s taught you well.” Harry pauses a moment to consider his reply. “The Ministry tends to take notice when Death Eaters who are supposed to be dead show up perfectly alive.”  
Summersby meets the younger man’s gaze, eyes darting sidelong only once.   
“I’d like to know where she is.” Harry’s voice is low, but far from soft; Hermione almost winces.   
“I’m afraid I can’t tell you that.”  
There it is again; the silence.   
For the second time, it is Hermione who breaks it. “Then I’m afraid we’ll have to inform the Ministry, Mr. Summersby.”  
The man’s face clouds--as much as Hermione hates that term, she must admit it’s the most accurate way to describe what’s happening in Summersby’s eyes. “What a pity.”  
This time, Harry doesn’t even bother hiding his eye roll. “The thing about laws, Ethnan--”  
But they never do find out the thing about laws. Because right at that moment, Summersby turns on his heel, and with a flick of the robes and a loud crack, he’s gone.  
\-------

Ron is, as Harry predicted, livid when they tell him.  
“Do you think you can’t trust me?” The look in his eyes rather reminds Hermione of a puppy that’s been kicked. It isn’t doing anything for the knot in her stomach.   
“Of course not, it’s just--”  
“Just what?” He glares at her across the table. “Hermione, I’m your bloody boyfriend. You should be able to trust me with anything.”  
She knows they shouldn’t, but those two little syllables--boyfriend--make her head hurt. “Please don’t--”  
“Don’t what?” He leans across the table, one freckled hand planted firmly on the honey-colored wood. “What’ve I done, Hermione?”  
“Don’t--” She pushes her hands up through her hair, making it even more frizzy than usual. She doesn’t care. “Ron, I didn’t mean to--”  
“What? Spit it out--”  
“Merlin’s--my god, lay off her already.” Hermione starts at Ginny’s voice; she hadn’t noticed the younger girl in the shadows. The redhead folds the newspaper she’d been thumbing through and fixes her brother with a stare so sharp Hermione’s half convinced the wall behind him will give way any second now. “It’s past. It’s done. Get over it.”  
“It’s far from done,” Ron protests, but Ginny’s already gone back to her paper. Before he can start talking her ear off again, Hermione stands up, pushing the chair back with a scrape of the legs.   
“I’ve really got work to go to,” she says--again in that strangely confident voice, coming from God knows where--and Ron doesn’t protest because, for once, he’s got no reason to. He knows full well how much muscle the Ministry’s putting into   
Though really, the girl thinks as she climbs the stairs, Harry and Ron will bear the worst of it. She’s only standing in as a witness; as aurors, their job will no doubt be much harder.   
There’s no one else on the top floor--save for the distant white noise of the rest of the family, it’s dead quiet. This is such stark contrast to what Hermione’s grown used to she almost feels like talking to herself just to fill the silence.   
She opens the door to her room and steps inside, shutting the door with a click behind her. She hasn’t even started yet, and already just one look at the desk--stacks of parchment spilling over the edges, quill at the ready--makes her shoulders sag.   
Don’t be so lazy, she chides herself as she crosses the room and sinks into the chair. She must admit she’s partially grateful for the work as she dunks her quill in the inkwell. It gives her something to think about--something other than Ron, or Bellatrix, or Mrs. Weasley--  
God, Mrs. Weasley. Though she recovered quicker than any of them--or at least made a good show of recovering quickly--that five-second glimpse of weariness in her eyes was enough to make Hermione feel very, very small.  
Not now. She grabs a sheaf of parchment off the stack and begins her letter, hoping the scritching and scratching can drown out the memory.   
Since the war ended and the tedious paperwork began, Hermione has been the Unofficial Letter-Writer of the Golden Trio. Churning out letter after letter shouldn’t surprise her; but this pile of work would throw anyone. Dear Ms. Rachita Gupta, Mr. Kingsley Shacklebolt, Ms. Minerva Mcgonagall, Ms. Marlene Boyd and half a dozen others; anyone and everyone who could help. The letters are all virtually the same; Ex-auror and Death Eater, previously thought to be deceased; might be somewhere in London; would appreciate advice and help. Signed and rolled, then onto the next one.   
By the fifth letter, her eyes are beginning to ache. Downstairs, she can hear the bubbling laugh of Ginny, the clattering of pots and pans as Mrs. Weasley and the boys start on dinner. All of it feels forced, a cheerful smile one pastes on for a family picture.   
She scratches out one last Sincerely, Hermione J. Granger before setting the last letter aside. In a way that suggests she has done it quite a bit, she pulls out a string of twine, cuts it from the rest of the bundle and ties up the letters in one neat stack with a little bow on top. She hands it off to Arwen--the pygmy owl, chattering excitedly on the windowsill--then crosses to the window. “To London, understand?”  
The tiny bird regards the girl with large amber eyes and let out a hoot. Hermione flicks open the shutters, and the little guy hops out into the night.  
She watches him drift off into the wind, then shuts the window with a sigh. She can already imagine the storm that’ll hit in the morning--they’ll get pelted with owls, with letter after letter begging for more details, for personal meetings. She’d better get used to these late nights of letter-writing. And of course, she’ll hardly see Harry, or Ron…  
Well, nothing missed there, she thinks, and almost laughs before she catches herself. What is she thinking? She must be awfully sleepy…why, the thought of no Ron almost makes her chest feel oddly...light...  
She sinks into bed, eyes fluttering closed the second her head hits the pillow.


End file.
